


This One Is for Bravery

by Delphi



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Backstory, Forced Sterilization, Gen, Historical, Mental Institutions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 17:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3455288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The state of Iowa made a man out of him. This was a fact." </p><p>Written for the <a href="http://picfor1000.livejournal.com/">A Picture Is Worth 1000 Words</a> writing challenge.  </p><p>Prompt: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/anakronfilm/4102772961/in/photostream/lightbox/">Broken Mirror</a> by Andreas Brink</p>
            </blockquote>





	This One Is for Bravery

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from "Soldier's Things" by Tom Waits.

The state of Iowa made a man out of him. This was a fact. He was a child when he arrived at the Home, and he was grown when he left. In between was a series of itchy shirts and cold baths. Corn mush served with milk for breakfast and fried for dinner. Hot dogs and baked beans on Sundays. There was a Depression on, and by God it was a great one.

Before the Home there was a white house. Green waving stalks one day and then black clouds blowing along the road. Hot dust under his bare feet. Corn was ten cents a bushel. Voices up on the porch as he hid underneath it. John, leave him be. Something ain't right with him, Edie — what the hell are we supposed to do with a feeble-minded boy? Wheat was thirty cents a bushel.

The long, rattling drive took all day. They knew how to make roads back then. None of this pansy-ass blacktop with lines painted on it, trying to tell you where to go. They knew how to make trucks back then too. Real farm trucks with wooden floors and steel bars that got hot in the sun.

He could barely see over the dash.

Dust rose up from the road and settled on his eyelashes. It got in his mouth, adding extra grit to his sugar sandwich. Stop that. Get your finger out of your nose.

All the dry dirt and crusted snot peeled off in one satisfying layer and he could breathe again. It was the same satisfaction as picking away at the paint on the metal frame of his new bed. He smiled as a big white chip flaked off under his fingernail. The Boys' Ward was noisy at night, crowded with the sounds of snoring, farting, crying, and groaning. 

The night nurse played the radio. He could hear it through the door. Faint and crackling voices. The Swingtown Orchestra Players, then Detective Keen, and then the Midnight Mystery Show. He stayed awake as long as he could, straining his ears until the stories followed him into his dreams.

"Yesterday, December 7, 1941 — a date which will live in infamy — the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan."

It was the middle of the afternoon. One of the nurses, the nice one with the red hair, gathered them all together in the day room. She had her hand over her mouth. Boys. Boys, listen. This is important.

This was important. America was at war, and they all needed to hold the home front. They needed to be brave now. They were doing their part for the war effort. They were going without for the soldiers. The handyman and the guards and most of the doctors went away. The milk was more water than powder. The radio was on all the time.

The other nurse frowned. Turn that off, Doris. You'll get them overexcited.

He was always overexcited. Calm down or you're going in the Quiet Room. Stop that. Get your hand out of your pants. That is disgusting. What is wrong with you? He started wetting the bed again after years of dry sheets. It felt good until they caught him. Then he had to wear mittens at night. Rough wool things that made his hands sweat. Strings tied tight around his wrists. He had to take a vitamin pill with breakfast. He couldn't stay awake, no matter how hard he tried. 

You're having a growth spurt. Growing up is tiring work, son.

The doctor, the old one who didn't go away to fight, brought him upstairs for a test. He was measured and weighed. There were questions. He had to memorize a long list of words. Draw the missing door on a picture of a house and the hands on a picture of a clock. Make shapes out of blocks. It was boring. He scratched his itchy back, wanting to look out the window. It was snowing, and he could hear the delivery truck coming through the gates. He frowned. Tried his best so that the doctor would tell the army he was good enough to enlist.

A pencil tapped on the clipboard. You're going to have an operation. 

It was cold down in the basement where the operating room was. White tile floor and water-stained white walls. Goosebumps prickling on his arms and legs. He could see his breath. There was the sound of something dripping in the walls. A hard metal table under his back. The light from the lamp burned his eyes, even through his squeezed-shut eyelids. He couldn't cover them. His wrists were strapped down. Hush. Stop making a fuss. This is routine. 

There was a smell like gasoline. The burning stopped and the room went gray and hazy. He was floating. 

He would have thought getting his tonsils out would make his throat hurt, but it felt fine. His head was heavy when he woke up. There was an ache between his legs, like he had been kicked in the balls. He was alone, and everything was quiet for a long time. Footsteps out in the hall and up on the first floor. The faraway thumping from the laundry. Somewhere, someone was having a fit. The redheaded nurse came in and fed him cold, creamy banana pudding from a little white bowl.

The spoon clicked against his teeth. She scratched his itchy neck for him when he asked her to. Sharp fingernails. Warm, soft skin. Go to sleep, soldier. You were brave today.

He smiled, his eyelids growing heavy as he watched her clean up. Sharp things clunking into a bucket. Rust-stained rags. His tongue ran around the inside of his mouth, chasing down every last speck of pudding with pride. 

A man had to earn his dessert in those days. There was a war on, and by God he was going to fight for his country.


End file.
